It's not that I didn't see it coming--no, I watched the bottle slip from my hands, drop to the floor, shatter into a thousand pieces, settle scattered across the floor.
In that startled, but not startled moment, I stare. No sudden moves, because I can't remember if I'm wearing shoes. I wiggle a toe. There's shoes or there's not. And then I know what to do.
The big pieces first. Carefully, so as not to cut my hands--I should be wearing gloves, but then I should be wearing shoes.
Then the little pieces, as much as I can. A paper towel to get the liquid and the tiny shards. A broom, then, as far around the perimeter as I think it's possible for the glass to have gone to ground.
It's always very likely that later, barefoot again, I will step on a tiny shard lost under the lip of the counter, worked it's way into the middle of the floor to meet the tender spot of the arch, which flattens against the floor as I walk, because high arches doesn't mean the feet stand tall. Pronation, they say, and in goes the shard.
Later, it's me and peroxide and tweezers, sitting on the toilet lid, squinting in the light, trying to see that last little bit still causing me trouble.
And that is how my brain works when I meet something unexpectedly expected and the bottle drops. Saw it coming, I did. But there ain't nothing for it.
The words don't come 'til they're broken.